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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004533">know your story like I do</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae'>jessalae</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, M/M, Other, Post-Season/Series 03 AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:15:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,403</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004533</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fix-It AU where Season 3 actually ended well, and the gang has a hot second to just live for once. Quentin and Eliot try to fix some things in Fillory, and maybe manage to fix themselves, a bit.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Minor or Background Relationship(s), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>190</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>know your story like I do</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>An AU where at the end of S3 the bullet actually worked, Alice didn't intervene, and magic is back, unrestricted. </p><p>Content Notes: detailed depiction of depression, some fantasy violence, kinda some gaslighting (in the same vein as what we see Eliot do in 4x05, post-mosaic)</p><p>Title from "You Belong With Me" by Taylor Swift</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"El, get up."</p><p>"Nnnno."</p><p>Quentin picks his way carefully across the dark bedroom, wincing as he finds some extremely heavy, extremely pointy piece of furniture with his shin. "Really, Eliot. I need your help."</p><p>"<em>Now</em>? While I'm resting?"</p><p>Quentin finds the curtains and flings them open, letting the bright midday sun filter through the latticed walls. Eliot squints at him with the betrayed expression of the violently hungover. "You're not resting, you're wallowing," Quentin says firmly. "Magic is back, Fillory needs leadership, and you've been..." he waves an arm around the room, indicating the variety of bottles, the piles of discarded clothes. "Hiding away, instead of helping Margo get things running again."</p><p>Eliot levers himself up on one elbow. "I was <em>violently deposed</em> by the humans of this country not all that long ago," he says, "And then I lost the royal election because I didn't appeal to the Disney-ass talking critter demographic. The servants in this castle all hate me, my wife is off on a journey of self-discovery in grad school on my home planet, there is no role that I am either qualified to or want to occupy, except -- this." He rolls over onto his stomach and pulls a pillow over his head.</p><p>Quentin takes a step towards the bed, rethinks, takes a step again. Finally he decides, and walks around to the other side, hovering by where Eliot's face must be. "I've fucked this kingdom up as least as badly as you did," he says, "And Margo still gave me a job and she says I can have a team. So." He plops the stack of books he's been holding next to Eliot's face. "Now you're part of the team. I'm recruiting you."</p><p>"For what?" Eliot's muffled voice asks. His hand sneaks out from under the pillow to pull one of the books closer, turning it so the title is nearer to his face.</p><p>Quentin opens his notebook to a relevant page and props it up where Eliot can (probably) see it. "There are a ton of spells that were working before magic died, but they didn't start back up again when it came back. The Fillorians mostly don't know how they were cast in the first place, they just know they need them working again -- and some of them are <em>really</em> mad about it -- so I'm trying to figure out what they all were and what it'll take to get them running."</p><p>The pillow shifts as Eliot reaches for the notebook, dark curls peeking out from under the embroidered pillowcase. Quentin continues hopefully. "So far these are the ones I know about, but more keep coming in every day, and a lot of them are really beyond what I actually studied, so..."</p><p>"Yeah, no, I can see that," Eliot says in a faraway voice, pushing himself up onto both elbows and shrugging the pillow off. The sunlight is golden on his skin, across his shoulders and down the plane of his bare back, and Quentin reminds himself not to stare. "This won't work, you're going to have extra energy leaking everywhere if you use this method. Honestly, what <em>do</em> they teach you at that school these days?" He glances up at Quentin and sighs, then rolls over and sits up all in one motion, kicking the blankets away, holding out a hand for Quentin to help him out of bed. Quentin takes the hand and keeps his face impassive, mostly, as Eliot stands up next to him. "No need for your puppy dog eyes, I'll help. We'll head to this town of, uh--" he consults the notebook-- "Thistlegrub? Tomorrow morning. When I've had a good night's sleep. Let's do this, team."</p><p>"Um, I'm the head of this team," Quentin says.</p><p>Eliot presses the open notebook to Quentin's chest, forcing him to take it back, and heads for the wardrobe. "We can work that part out later. Do you know who I'd talk to about getting a bath drawn up? A warm one? And maybe cleaning up in here?"</p><p>Quentin excuses himself to pack for their trip to Thistlegrub and wonders if he's just made life significantly harder for himself.</p><p>*** </p><p>It's not that Quentin isn't taking no for an answer. He is, and that's that. A year ago, he would definitely have pushed things, insisted-- but it had been a long, long year. With like fifty years in the middle of it. He respects what Eliot said, that afternoon on the steps when the memories hit them. Or at least he respects that Eliot thinks it's true, that they were just momentarily overwhelmed with emotion and ultimately wouldn’t it work. But you can know something in your brain, like the importance of respecting your friend's stated wishes vis a vis your relationship, and your body can know something very different</p><p>
  <em>The curve of long fingers through yours, on lazy summer afternoons, or warm together under a quilt on a bright winter morning</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A tiny smile, a real smile, at the corner of his mouth when your corny joke actually made him laugh, even as he theatrically turns away to give you the silent treatment</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Years of muscle memory of standing and sitting and resting and holding and kissing and</em>
</p><p>They’re distracting, the memories, and they pop up at the worst times. Like now:</p><p>"Quentin!" Eliot's voice, angry -- like maybe actually really angry -- snaps Quentin out of a momentary reverie. The hot Fillorian summer sun beats down on their heads, but they are soaked up to their waists in mud, water oozing up from the comically over-saturated field they're attempting to wade through. "Would you fucking <em>move</em>, I am sinking <em>even deeper</em>--"</p><p>"Yeah," Quentin says hastily, leaning all his weight to the right to try and lever his left foot out of the mud, flailing his arms just in time to keep from face-planting.</p><p>"This spell had better work," Eliot grumbles, squelching along behind him. "Or you're paying to replace these shoes."</p><p>"The fuck I am," Quentin says. He brushes a strand of hair out of his mouth and grimaces, knowing he just left a smear of mud on his own cheek. "You read the mayor's letter, you knew what we were getting into."</p><p>"It's <em>inside my socks</em>, Quentin!"</p><p>"Stop being such a baby." Quentin stretches out his arms towards the ancient stone obelisk they're laboriously working their way towards. One fingertip barely grazes the edge of it, and he sighs and hauls himself forward another step. "I can almost reach--"</p><p>Eliot's weight presses against him from behind, almost overbalancing him, as Eliot's longer arms reach out and grab ahold of the statue. "I've got it, go, go--"</p><p>With a strange combination of pushing, pulling, lunging, and a lot of swearing, they both hoist themselves onto the inch-wide lip of stone around the bottom of the obelisk. Eliot scrabbles for handholds in the symbols and whorls of the ancient carvings, and Quentin manages to get one hand in the collar of Eliot's shirt so he can get his notebook out with his other hand, flipping pages with a combination of fingers and chin until he finds the re-activation spell they’ve developed over the past few days.</p><p>"Okay," he says, a little breathless, and starts chanting in Old Norse. Eliot reaches around the obelisk to grab a handful of Quentin's shirt so his other hand can shape the motions of the spell, and they cling there precariously, counterbalancing each other, leaning on each other's strength and the ancient stone and trying not to slip back into the mud.</p><p>Quentin finishes the words of the spell, feeling the power flow from him and up through the obelisk, the carvings glowing with bright white light momentarily before they fade back to lichen-covered gray. There's a truly unpleasant wet noise, and the water recedes from the fields around them, the ground turning from treacherous soup to rich, dark, wet soil.</p><p>Quentin meets Eliot's eyes, takes a deep breath, and steps backwards off the ledge, half expecting that somehow just the patch under his foot will have stayed waterlogged. When he doesn't fall, he grins, and lets go of his death grip on Eliot's shirt.</p><p>"All right," Eliot says, nodding as he straightens his collar. "That seems to have done it."</p><p>"Yeah," Quentin says, tucking his notebook away. "Thanks-- for helping me figure out the spell, and coming to cast with me, I didn't really-- have enough hands to get it done on my own." He looks down at his mud-soaked bottom half. "Also I would have just entirely been covered in mud."</p><p>"And that would have been a tragedy indeed," Eliot drawls. "Of course I came with. We're a team."</p><p>
  <em>marking colors on a page, dozens and dozens of squares, pastel and dust under his fingernails as another pattern comes into focus with careful if somewhat profane direction</em>
</p><p>Quentin nods, glances at Eliot, then away from him. "Guess we make a pretty good one." The remark almost sounds as off-handed as he wanted it to, but there's still a split-second too much of hesitation before Eliot responds, and Quentin jumps in to fill the silence: "So, report back to the mayor, then back to the palace?"</p><p>"Report back to the mayor and ask him for some towels to sit on," Eliot corrects. "Margo will not hesitate to murder us if we get this shit on the upholstery in the carriage."</p><p>"Good point," Quentin says.</p><p>***</p><p>Eventually, inevitably, one of the spells on their to-do list takes them north of the palace -- north-east to be exact -- up into a quiet, forested, green part of the kingdom that becomes achingly familiar as the carriage draws closer. Quentin tries to stay absorbed in the book he's reading as the road crosses a river, curves past a thick copse of trees. He hasn't seen any of this before, technically, but he bites his tongue as the road forks and the driver takes them down to the right.</p><p>
  <em>No, the left fork is the fastest way to the cottage, that's the way home...</em>
</p><p>He shakes his head abruptly and glances at Eliot, sprawled on the other seat of the carriage taking a nap, long legs pretzeled into strange angles. A couple of curls have fallen across Eliot’s face -- his hair is getting long, and he refuses to let any Fillorian barber try to cut it. Quentin’s eyes trace the dark strands</p><p>
  <em>turning to brown-black shot through with silver, and Quentin thinks it’s gorgeous no matter how much Eliot grouses about his lack of access to modern hair dye technology</em>
</p><p>Quentin chews on his tongue thoughtfully. The memories carry emotions with them, filling his heart, and when they flash away again his heart stays full. But it fills the same way when Eliot has a lightbulb moment while researching a spell, after spending an hour steadfastly pretending not to be studying. It leaps a bit when Eliot stretches to his full height and his shirt rides up, it pounds when they end up squished into a tiny bed when a little rural inn is too full for separate rooms.</p><p>The carriage hits a bump in the road, and Eliot snorts awake. "Almost there?" he asks groggily.</p><p>"I think so," Quentin says, flipping a few pages back in his book to try and read it again and actually pay attention to it this time. It doesn’t work all that well. </p><p>He looks up again a moment later, and Eliot is sitting up, staring out the window of the carriage, his eyes fixed above the tops of the trees where a few little columns of chimney smoke are rising, just enough for a small village, spread loosely through the forest.</p><p>Just as Quentin is debating saying something, the carriage draws abruptly to a halt, and the driver knocks on the door.</p><p>"We're here," Eliot says unnecessarily, and practically leaps out of the carriage.</p><p>***</p><p>It’s been a month, and requests have started pouring in from every corner of the kingdom and a couple across various borders, and the traveling all over the place is really getting old. “I would really love it,” Eliot says as they climb out of the carriage, “If I could spend more than one consecutive night in my bed here. It’s a very nice bed, it doesn’t deserve to be left alone so often.”</p><p>Quentin tries to walk towards the palace, ends up drifting sideways a bit. Three days trying to re-set the magical GPS on a living ship that had gotten confused and wouldn’t stop sailing around in small circles had really done a number on his balance. “I think we have one nearby,” he says. “I’ll check the list.”</p><p>He’s right: the Royal Mill is just a short walk from the palace, its enormous water wheel turning ponderously in the steady flow of the river. Technically, all they really had to do was figure out and brew up the ingredients that would reactivate the spell -- the millers could easily have done the rest, since it didn’t take any particular magical skill. But Eliot had realized lately that doing the grunt work was a great way to work his way back into the people’s good graces. Or at least their not-immediately-going-for-pitchforks graces.</p><p>"Smile at the people, Quentin," Eliot says, following his own advice as a couple city guards come by on their rounds and give them a once-over. "Look like you're having a good time."</p><p>"I am not having a good time," Quentin says through gritted teeth that could maybe be considered a smile if you were generous. "My fingers hurt and this stuff stinks."</p><p>Eliot gives a little wave to a couple curious children who are poking their heads around the door, then goes back to work massaging enchanted silkworm-and-licorice paste into every nook, cranny, and rivulet of the millstone and its attendant machinery. "No stamina," he sighs. "It's why you give terrible foot rubs."</p><p>"You love my foot rubs," Quentin retorts, and then realizes he's never given Eliot a foot rub.</p><p>"Gift horse, mouth, I'll take what I can get," Eliot says, before he abruptly goes quiet, his jaw clenching. Quentin pauses his work, looking up at him, remembering--</p><p>
  <em>cold winter evenings, curled at the end of the bed near the fire, callused skin and a tiny jar of oil they traded for last time a peddler came through</em>
</p><p>
  <em>hands and back aching from the day's work, smoothing over strong calves and thumbs pushing into the arch, a pained but grateful noise escaping his mouth</em>
</p><p>"El," he starts, but Eliot is already talking as well, casually and a little too loudly.</p><p>"This has been a good break, but I'd like to tackle something a little more impressive next -- rust prevention at the Royal Mill is useful, obviously, but nobody's going to exactly notice the results except the millers, so we need something flashy. But safe, nothing we're actually going to fuck up. What was that thing with the spiders? In the southern forest? Or was that the one with the crows?"</p><p>"Spider-crows," Quentin says. "The villages around there had a ward to keep the spider-crows from stealing their chickens and pets, and it isn’t working anymore."</p><p>"That sounds... utterly horrible."</p><p>"Yeah. And it’s pretty much the opposite of safe." Quentin gets another glob of enchanted paste out of the tub and squats down to work on the thick iron frame holding up the lower stone.</p><p>“Not that one, then. God, I hate this fucking place.” Eliot mutters, then turns and gives a dazzling smile to one of the millers, who has come in to see how they're getting on. </p><p>It takes four rounds of hand-washing that evening before Quentin's fingers stop smelling like the damn mealworm paste, but it does feel good to put a little check mark by "rust-proofing ward for royal mill" in his notebook. He stares at the page for a minute after he does, counting up the check marks, counting up the still-growing list of things to check off. His next -- year, maybe? year and a half? -- unfolds in front of him: researching, traveling, spellwork, research, traveling, spellwork. Looking up old incantations and ancient symbols with Eliot. Riding in carriages with Eliot. Sharing cozy rooms at tiny inns, breakfast in the morning, Eliot's hair wet from the bath, cooperative spellcasting and wine at the tavern in the evening and sunset hues across Eliot's face through the window and-- keeping his mouth shut about how he feels, because Eliot said no. But -- what did he say no to, exactly?</p><p>A moment later, before he can convince himself it’s a terrible idea, he’s fidgeting in the doorway of Eliot's room. It's much more put together than it was when he first came in, before that first fixed spell. There are still clothes everywhere, but they're in color-coordinated piles this time, Eliot being in the middle of a closet re-org.</p><p>"Hey so should we, uh, talk about it?" Quentin says in a rush. “What happened with the memories today?”</p><p>"What is there to talk about?" Eliot says, casual but too ready to say it, like he's been rehearsing this conversation in his head as much as Quentin has been since it happened. "It's just deja vu, it happens."</p><p>"It happens because it <em>happened</em>," Quentin points out. "This isn't like, maybe I had a dream about this once and now it feels weirdly familiar. We actually lived the things we’re remembering. That’s why they keep coming up."</p><p>"Someone very similar to us lived those things." Eliot shrugs. "The same kind of someone who died thirty-nine times fighting the Beast. This timeline is this timeline. Getting into all the time travel shit would be the definition of overthinking it. We just-- the only thing worth talking about is what’s real.”</p><p>Quentin swallows, sweeps his hair back behind one ear. “I mean,” he says. “If you want a foot rub, I’d definitely give you one.”</p><p>“Don’t do that, Q,” Eliot says, holding up a vest at arm’s length and eyeing it critically.</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Try and convince yourself that it’s anything more than echoes. Look, we both had a moment, earlier, I know how it felt. And the feeling hangs around for a while, sometimes. That’s all.”</p><p>Quentin feels himself nodding, although his brain is screaming at him that no, that is so very far from all.</p><p>“Besides,” Eliot says. “The way things go for me, I’d probably just be riddled with magical leg cramps if anyone but Fen tried anything. She hadn’t been born yet in that other timeline, but in this one, well. I’ve seen enough weird-ass Fillorian magic lately to not want to fuck around and find out.”</p><p>Quentin’s heart sinks, and he kicks himself for forgetting that with magic back, the fidelity spell in Eliot’s vows would be in place again. He says goodnight and goes back to his room, and makes himself focus hard on each and every word in the book he’s reading until his head hurts and he’s tired enough to sleep.</p><p>***</p><p>The list of spells to fix grows to several pages, expanding much faster than they can check them off. After receiving one too many letters from impatient citizens, Margo "suggests" that they grow their team to better keep up with the pace of requests, and they travel to Brakebills to see if any of the older students would be interested in a study-abroad opportunity. Dean Fogg meets with them grudgingly.</p><p>"These won't be terrible," he says with disgust, handing over a list of a few names. "They won't be particularly good, either. But I suppose it would be difficult to mess things up worse than your little gang did already. Maybe they'll even learn from your mistakes." He laughs humorlessly.</p><p>"Cool," Quentin says, "Thank you. Um, we're probably going to need to stay for a few days to do some interviews, can we just-- are there--"</p><p>"Enrollment is higher than ever, and your old rooms have new students in them." The Dean looks at Eliot. "I expected that you'd want to stay with your wife." He looks at Quentin. "I've arranged for an extra cot in her room."</p><p>"Ah yes," Eliot says, with a smile that challenges the Dean to say anything else. "I have missed her so."</p><p>Fen's room is in the Nature House, which is dug into the side of a grass-covered hill -- the doors and windows are rectangular, but the place still has serious Hobbiton vibes. They can see Fen waiting at the door from yards away, almost bouncing a little with excitement, and she greets them both with enthusiastic hugs.</p><p>Inside the house air is cool and a little damp, but not in an unpleasant way. The walls of Fen's room are covered with color, little sketches and watercolors, postcards from various tourist traps, all surrounding one of Benedict's gorgeous hand-drawn maps of Fillory. Quentin sits cross-legged on the aforementioned cot. Eliot sits gently on the edge of Fen's bed at first, then when she pats the blankets next to her he scoots back to recline more comfortably.</p><p>"How is Margo? How is Fillory? I was going to come home to visit at the last break but my friend Marissa wanted to take me to this place that she said was The Most Magical On Earth -- oh, of course, you know that, I sent you a bunny about it." Fen lightly smacks her forehead with her palm. "Dah!"</p><p>Quentin and Eliot share a glance. "Dah?"</p><p>"It means something was so obvious, I should have already thought of it." Fen leans back into Eliot's chest, looks up at him, a sly smile on her face. "I think I might be saying it wrong, but sometimes it's nice to lean into the 'I'm a dumb Fillorian, teach me your Earth ways' thing. Lowers people's expectations."</p><p>"I have taught you well," Eliot says, and wraps his arm around her waist. "Margo is good. Tyrannical in all the best ways. Fillory thrives under her iron rule. How was Disneyland?"</p><p>"Much less real magic than I expected," Fen says with a shrug. "But the churros! The churros were excellent. And the carriage-rides, the fast ones on the metal roads, they were really quite exhilarating."</p><p>"How have you been liking your classes?" Quentin asks, eyeing Fen's lecture notes, stacked neatly on the desk and marked up with colored highlighting.</p><p>"God you are <em>so</em> boring," Eliot says before Fen can answer. "More importantly, how's the party scene here? Dead and gone due to my absence, I assume?"</p><p>"Not quite," Fen says, shooting a fondly exasperated look at Quentin. "We celebrate frequently, even when there’s nothing in particular to celebrate. There's some kind of event on the main field tonight, actually, I think it's a joint effort between someone in my house and the Physical House."</p><p>"Say no more," Eliot says, "We will attend and relive my glory days."</p><p>"I could for a little while," Fen says, "But not long. I was up far too late last night." She yawns and rolls towards Eliot, curling her face into his chest.</p><p>Eliot sighs and kisses the top of her head. "Q?"</p><p>Quentin is picking at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. "I'm not really feeling it," he says.</p><p>"My two little homebodies," Eliot says, and lays back. "Have it your way. I will be power-napping for the next hour to build up my energy, do not disturb me."</p><p>Quentin watches them drift off to sleep in a way that’s, okay, maybe kind of creepy, but. They really are sweet together, and he needs to remember that. Eliot's fingers relax against Fen's t-shirt as he drifts off, and she gradually curls further into him, snoring softly. Quentin sighs, fighting back a memory--</p><p>
  <em>of lying in that same position, curled safely under Eliot's arm, patchwork quilt over their legs together</em>
</p><p>He slumps back on the cot, stares at the ceiling (which is decorated with a watercolor of a little potted cactus) and tries to disentangle jealousy and longing and being angry at himself for jealousy and longing. He's not sure how long it is before he, too, falls asleep.</p><p>He wakes up to the sound of a door closing, back stiff, hair frizzed into his face. Fen is sitting at her desk, a sandwich in one hand, the other propping open a big reference book.</p><p>"El leave?" he says groggily.</p><p>"Yes, he's off to the party," Fen says, glancing up. "This sandwich is for you." She hands him a plate.</p><p>"Thanks." It's PB&amp;J, which he hasn’t had in months, since the peanuts in Fillory are sentient. "You didn't want to go with him?"</p><p>"No, I decided not to. I realized the man throwing the party is someone I hooked up with at the beginning of the semester and I'd rather not see him." She wrinkles her nose. "He was unpleasantly obsessed with the idea of being with a Queen, he really didn't care about me as a person."</p><p>"Mm," Quentin says, then her words sink into his brain a little more. "Wha-- you, uh-- yeah. And-- Eliot went to the party?"</p><p>"He told me he could show the man what it's really like to spend a night with a Queen if I wanted him to, which I could tell was a joke, so I laughed. But I told him not to bother. No sense in wasting any time on someone so... mediocre." Fen glances at Quentin's deer-in-headlights expression, then blushes. "Sorry, I didn't-- I've learned to talk differently, here. My friends are so much more open about everything than I was raised to be. It's been very helpful, if sometimes confusing."</p><p>"Good," Quentin says, still reeling. "No, sorry, it's just-- you can talk however you want, it's not a problem. I just didn't realize, um. That you, had that kind of-- <em>open</em>-- thing going on. Um, with Eliot and you. I thought-- never mind." He waves a hand, hopefully not too frantically. "Still half asleep."</p><p>Fen frowns at him. "Eliot didn't tell you what we decided before I left? I told him-- I assume he's been doing the same as I have, spending time with other people who catch his fancy? Did you think he was doing that behind my back?"</p><p>"Um," Quentin flounders. "I haven't noticed if he has. We've been working together but just, like, we're not together all the time. We don't-- really talk. About that."</p><p>And it's true, he hasn't noticed if Eliot has been hooking up with anyone -- in fact, he'd bet money that he hasn't been. Because he definitely would have noticed, with the nights on the road, plenty of cute village boys in taverns, that one traveling acrobat who was definitely into it and who Eliot had deftly pawned off on Margo. It hadn't been at all remarkable that Eliot <em>wasn't</em>, when Quentin had thought-- that the magic-- from Eliot's marriage--</p><p>He cuts off that train of thought, aware of Fen's eyes on him. "Sorry. Just. Thinking about, some other thing. Never mind. What are you studying?" He stands, looking over her shoulder.</p><p>Fen gives him an appraising look that spears right into his soul, then offers him a sheet of notes. "Major magical uses of Southeast Asian flora. Quiz me?"</p><p>Quentin learns more about lemongrass in the following several hours than he even knew it was possible to know. Fen turns in around ten, and Quentin tries to make it an early night as well, but he ends up mostly staring at the cactus watercolor on the ceiling, thinking about why Eliot would have -- not lied, technically, but implied so heavily that it was basically lying, why he wouldn't be taking full advantage of the carte blanche Fen had given him to fuck anyone his heart desires, until the door softly clicks open at who-knows-what hour. He quickly rolls onto his side and closes his eyes, then cracks them open again, behind the curtain of his hair, just to see.</p><p>Eliot is a bit flushed, the points of color high in his cheeks just dark smudges in the half-light. He stumbles a tiny bit around the end of the bed, then goes about untying his tie, unbuttoning shirt and vest. He stands in the middle of the room in his underwear, for a moment, looking back and forth from cot to bed. Then he brings one hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to his thumb, brushes it softly along Quentin's pillow just above his head, and slides into bed next to Fen.</p><p>***</p><p>“All right, interns, time to break you in,” Eliot announces cheerfully as the carriage sets off down the road.</p><p>Quentin glares at him. “This problem is a pretty simple one, as these things go. Perfect for your first hands-on assignment.”</p><p>“And the spell we think will fix it is a huge pain in the ass, so we’re thrilled to have you here to take care of the dirty work for us.”</p><p>Max and Bryony glance at each other a little warily. They’ve been in Fillory for a week now getting adjusted to their new role as spell repair interns, and they still seem a little confused by Quentin and Eliot’s working dynamic. To be fair, Quentin doesn’t have a great grasp on it himself, these days.</p><p>“Bryony, you handled the background research?” Quentin prompts.</p><p>“Right,” she says. “So, the first written evidence of the Great Southern Road comes from back in the reign of King William the Knock-Kneed…”</p><p>Quentin feels a weird and totally undeserved sense of pride as the interns walk them through the situation, with citations and (in Max’s case, he’s a Knowledge student) lots of tangents about theoretical frameworks of magic. “Honestly, I slept through ninety percent of my numerology classes,” Eliot says at one point, raising a hand to cut him off, “And this is really taking me back. By which I mean I’m about to nod off. Please get to the point.”</p><p>Quentin rolls his eyes at him, and gets a tiny smirk back, as Max continues, undaunted, in his explanation of the magnetic geometry of Fillory and how it differs from Earth, and why that matters for this spell.</p><p>It’s the first time Quentin and Eliot have sat on the same side of the carriage in a while, since usually it’s just the two of them heading off on a job, and it just makes sense for each of them to be able to spread out on one bench. Now, with two extra people, they’re in much closer quarters. Bryony is nearly as tall as Eliot, and Max is built like an olympic weightlifter, so Quentin is pretty much pinned in his seat, trying to keep his knees to himself and not notice when Eliot shifts and leans against him, which seems to be happening a lot. </p><p>It wouldn’t be a problem, if he just… understood where Eliot’s head was at. If they’re friends, great, no problem, he can casually touch his friends without it being awkward. If they were more -- which they weren’t, but if -- also no problem. But they’re in this weird in-between state, where he knows Eliot basically lied to him to give him the brush-off, where Eliot maybe seemed to have been considering whether to crawl into bed with him, where Eliot has been flirting with everything on two legs, including Quentin, even more than usual, and yet still ends up heading to bed alone each night, inexplicably. </p><p>In this state, every time Eliot’s weight presses into his side, it’s like being zapped with static electricity. Just a little pulse, but straight to his heart. And it doesn’t help that it sparks memories</p><p>
  <em>squished onto the bench outside the cottage, not really big enough for three adults and a toddler, but Teddy wanted them sitting in these precise spots to play like they’re peddlers on Market Day, so here they are, legs slightly overlapping</em>
</p><p>which intensify the zaps, which intensify the memories, in a feedback loop that is making Quentin extremely grumpy.</p><p>Finally the carriage slows and stops, and Quentin is the first one out, shaking out his stiff legs as he walks as far away from Eliot as he can without it being weird and obvious.</p><p>The road ahead of the carriage is choked with vegetation, roots and brambles and little blue flowers with a sickly-sweet scent tangled into an impenetrable carpet. Beyond the twenty-foot patch, Quentin can just see the clear white stone of the roadway, and then the plants start up again. </p><p>Quentin paces to the side of the road just behind the carriage and brushes away the leaves beside the road until he unearths a small white statue of a rearing horse, maybe a couple inches tall, its hooves glowing with amber light. “Okay, this one’s still working,” he says.</p><p>“Yep, it’s this one that’s broken,” Max says, crouching on the other side of the road and holding up a half of a stone horse. Its two remaining hooves are a dull black. </p><p>“Why horses?” Bryony asks, searching the side of the road until she finds the next statue in the line. “Why not some shape without tiny little flimsy legs to break off?”</p><p>“You’re asking Fillory to make sense,” Eliot says. “You need to internalize, and quickly, that it never does.”</p><p>Max and Bryony gather next to the broken statue and set up the necessary components of the repair spell, Quentin checking their work. After a while he turns to find Eliot setting up -- a hammock?</p><p>“What?” Eliot says, seeing the look on Quentin’s face. “We’re going to be out here for hours. We might as well get comfortable. I brought enough to share.” He points to a second hammock, strung between the next pair of trees.</p><p>Quentin sighs, and once the interns have started the spell, he has to admit that he’d rather be lounging in a hammock than sitting cross-legged on the ground until midnight. He gets up carefully, not wanting to disturb their chanting, and nearly ends up face down in the dirt trying to get into the fucking hammock. Eliot laughs at him as he clutches the sides, waiting for the hammock to gradually stop its wild swinging back and forth. “You put it up for someone your height,” Quentin points out, in his own defense.</p><p>“Yes, I always forget you’re fun-sized.” Eliot stretches out, hands behind his head. “Little Q. Aw, you’re the cutest when you glare.”</p><p>Quentin stops glaring to the best of his ability. “I gotta say, I’m pretty impressed with these two,” he says. “I’m kind of on the level of a second year student, I guess, and I don’t know a lot of the stuff they do.”</p><p>“Your education did go a little off the rails,” Eliot says. “As did mine, I guess. I still haven’t technically graduated.”</p><p>“Did you think about going back and finishing?” Quentin asked. “After we fixed magic? And, well, you weren’t king anymore?”</p><p>“Honestly? No.” Eliot produces a flask from somewhere and takes a sip. “This is going to sound <em>very</em> cliche, but-- I’m a different person now than I was when I was at school. I’ve seen too much shit to just go back and sit in class and be all academic about it.”</p><p>“Yeah, I do remember you being very into sitting in class and being all academic,” Quentin says innocently.</p><p>Eliot meets his eyes and takes another swig from his flask. “You’re right, that’s much more your thing than mine. Why didn’t you go back?”</p><p>Quentin debates how to answer this question. <em>Because you stayed here</em> is definitely too on the nose; <em>I’m a different person now too</em> is a cop-out. “I couldn’t know that Fillory is real and <em>not</em> try living here, I think,” he finally says, which has the benefit of being true. “Even with everything I know about it now, and how fucked up a lot of it really is-- still, deep down, the magic is still there for me. Not like, magic-magic. The magic when you’re a kid and you have one safe thing in your life, that kind of magic.”</p><p>“You really were a broken little boy, weren’t you?” Eliot muses.</p><p>“I thought that was a prereq for being a magician.” Quentin holds out a hand, and Eliot passes him the flask. Decent whiskey, probably stolen while they were at Brakebills. “And I at least found something to actually do here. What was your plan, before I asked you to help me? Just waste away in your bedroom?”</p><p>“That was just the first stage of the plan. I would have come up with a second stage eventually.”</p><p>They lapse into silence, Quentin passing the flask back. The interns are still chanting. Max is making careful tally marks on a piece of paper as they repeat the spell over and over, keeping track of the required seventy-nine repetitions.</p><p>Maybe it’s the whiskey warming his stomach that makes him brave, but eventually, Quentin says, “So, I know that, uh. The marriage spell isn’t a thing anymore.”</p><p>The briefest of pauses, then: “That’s nice,” Eliot says calmly.</p><p>“Is it? You don’t seem to be taking advantage of it.” </p><p>“We were just talking two minutes ago about how I’m a different person than I was at school.” </p><p>“I know that,” Quentin said. “But you still-- I’m just trying to understand, El.”</p><p>“You don’t have to,” Eliot says. “You don’t need to understand everything I do, actually. There are these things called boundaries, they’re really pretty great.”</p><p>“Lying to your friends is boundaries now?”</p><p>“If your friend is determined to convince himself that he feels something he doesn’t? Could be.” Eliot glances over briefly, sees the stricken look on Quentin’s face, sighs. “If something is a bad idea, sometimes it’s just easier to proceed as if it’s impossible until you stop wanting it. We’re both still processing-- a lot of shit about each other, and it’s hard enough to untangle it all without having that question open.”</p><p>“You still think it’s just echoes?”</p><p>“How often do you still have memory flashes?” Eliot counters. “I can tell when you’re having one, you get a very specific dopey look on your face, so it’s at least every couple of days. How could that not be having an impact on what you’re feeling now?” </p><p><em>An impact is not the same as it’s all fake</em>, Quentin wants to say, but the chanting from the roadside has reached a crescendo, and suddenly the thick mat of vegetation blocking the road bursts into bright orange flames, ten feet high and searingly hot. Before he can even scramble his way out of the hammock, though, the fire disappears as quickly and completely as it appeared. The road is perfectly clear, and the surrounding forest isn’t so much as singed.</p><p>“Excellent,” Eliot says brightly, clasping his hands together and smiling at the exhausted interns. “And you both have your eyebrows still, that’s good. Now that we know it works, Max, why don’t you and I take the next patch, and Bryony, you and Q can do the third one further down the road?”</p><p>Quentin nods and tries to smile encouragingly at Bryony, who nods back with determination and picks up her bag. At least repeating the same phrase seventy-nine times for the rest of the night will make it hard to think about anything else.</p><p>***</p><p>"Hey, so," Quentin says, taking a sip of carrot wine. "Question."</p><p>"Answer," Eliot says loftily.</p><p>They’re sitting in a tiny inn in a tiny mountain town where they have been trying to reinforce the anti-rockslide ward that’s been failing periodically since magic died, at the table that has become Their Table over the past two weeks, in the back corner, far enough from the music and arguments and curious eyes to have a reasonably uninterrupted conversation.</p><p>"About Dean Fogg," Quentin continues.</p><p>"Oh...kay?"</p><p>"He lived through the Beast forty different times," Quentin says. "And somehow he remembered all of them. Do you think in, like, round two, he was as much of an asshole as he was in our timeline? Or do you think he got that way after too much repetition?"</p><p>"A philosophical question," Eliot says. "Not what I was expecting." He sips his wine with a grimace. "Impossible to answer definitively, but I certainly don't think the repetition would have <em>helped</em>."</p><p>"That's what I was thinking. I mean, knowing where things went wrong last time, and the last thirty times, but not knowing how they're going to go wrong this time, or if this one will break the cycle? That's gotta be hard."</p><p>"I think he lost hope that we'd ever break out of the cycle long, long before forty." Eliot stares at a vague point over Quentin's shoulder, lounging back a little in his seat. "Seeing your students die over and over, whether or not you cared about them at any point, seeing the world come to an end in a variety of spectacularly terrible ways... that has to change you."</p><p>"So you think that even though those first thirty-nine cycles technically didn't happen, since he remembered them, it's kind of like he did live them after all. They were real to him. And so it was reasonable for his behavior in timeline forty to be influenced by what he knew from the previous timelines."</p><p>"That makes sense. As much as any time travel bullshit ever does, anyway."</p><p>"Mm." Quentin stares into his tankard for a moment, heart pounding, then pushes on: "So. Follow up question. Why can't we be together?"</p><p>Eliot chokes on his final sip of wine. "What the <em>fuck</em>, Coldwater?"</p><p>"It's the same thing," Quentin says insistently. "We lived a timeline. The timeline got re-set, so we never lived it. But we remember it, so we <em>did</em> live it, and--" He swallows hard. "And it was really good, what we had. The fact that I remember the first time doesn’t mean I don’t want it again now."</p><p>"And you thought the best way to seduce me was to debate-club me into fucking you by talking about <em>Dean Fogg</em>?"</p><p>"That's not-- I mean-- Okay, when you put it like that this was kind of a weird way of going about it--"</p><p>"You are..." Eliot rubs his forehead. "You are something else, Q."</p><p>"So how should I?" Quentin blurts out. "Seduce you, I mean. How..." Terror is rising hot and bright in his chest, but he can't back away again now or he'll just undermine his point. "I don't know what-- what the magic words are to convince you that I'm serious other than saying, I am. I want you. I <em>want you</em>."</p><p>Eliot looks lost, like he never in a million years expected this. "You don't mean that," he says, staring at a point somewhere over Quentin's shoulder again. His hands are so tight on his tankard that his knuckles are white.</p><p>"Fucking try me," Quentin responds, pouring every ounce of conviction he has into it. Eliot meets his eyes, and Quentin stares back, trying to somehow laser-vision his sincerity somehow into Eliot’s stupid brain.</p><p>"I’m serious, El,” he says softly. “What do I have to do to prove it to you?"</p><p>Eliot shudders, barely, but Quentin is looking at him so intently he can easily spot it, and then he’s silent and still, until: "Let's go upstairs and see.”</p><p>Eliot’s room is at the end of the hall, and the second the door closes Quentin is grabbing Eliot's collar and pulling him down and <em>oh, yes, fucking finally</em>, Eliot is kissing the life out of him, fingers through his hair and pressing him against the wall with the length of his body. Quentin melts. It's so good, like he's been diving at the bottom of the ocean all these months and now he's coming up for air. And there are some flashes of memory</p><p>
  <em>rain on the thatched roof, smell of fresh-baked bread from the hearth, Teddy's at a friend's house and it's been weeks I'm so desperate for you</em>
</p><p>but it doesn't matter, because that was as real as this is, and this is <em>really real</em>, Eliot's mouth all soft heat and tiny hint of teeth, stubble rasping Quentin's cheek. Quentin tongues Eliot's bottom lip just the way he likes it, relishes the noise he gets in return. He fumbles at Eliot's buttons, shirt -- no, vest first, then shirt, do it right, don't get them all tangled -- his heart pounds when his fingers find Eliot's chest, finally, run over Eliot's shoulders to shove the shirt off and rake nails gently down his back, press his hips up and in like <em>that</em>.</p><p>"Jesus, Q," Eliot breathes, wrapping one arm around Quentin's waist, leaving the other hand in his hair, tangling the silky strands and tugging deliciously.</p><p>Quentin can't find the words, there isn't a strong enough phrase in any of the languages he knows for this level of <em>want</em>. He's shaking, all his limbs, like his heartbeat is an earthquake. He knows he's hard, achingly so, knows Eliot is hard, but that frankly seems completely secondary to getting every inch of his skin on every inch of Eliot's and kissing him forever until they're so tangled they can't be separated. Forget sex, forget getting off, Quentin will be happy so long as this lasts until the end of time.</p><p>Eliot's hand slides down to Quentin's ass, cups it and pulls Quentin against him, rolling his hips to graze the length of his cock against Quentin's through their clothes. So, okay, maybe 'forget getting off' was a little strong.</p><p>"Fuck," Quentin says into the corner of Eliot's mouth, and "<em>Fuck</em>" again against his cheek, his head tipping back, Eliot kissing under the side of his jaw, under his ear.</p><p>"Yeah?" Eliot asks, breathless, "That what you want? Is that what you want me for?" Eliot palms Quentin's cock through his pants, and Quentin is so far beyond being able to respond. If his heart could just beam his feelings straight into Eliot's chest, that would be great, he'll be over here trying to stay conscious.</p><p>He manages to push against Eliot with his hands, a little, not only with his hips, and try and angle them towards the bed. Eliot hums deep, deep in his chest, Quentin feels it through his mouth and his sternum and down to the floor, and swings Quentin around by his ass and the nape of his neck to bring them crashing onto the bed--</p><p>--crashing, pretty literally, as there's a noise like wood hitting wood--</p><p>and Quentin is trying to kiss Eliot again but Eliot isn't looking at him, he's looking at the door, where the crashing noise hasn't stopped, and is in fact getting louder, and now includes words. Words like, "Sirs, magicians, help" and "rockslide" and "my Jeanie, she's trapped--"</p><p>"Fuck," Eliot says, in a very different tone of voice, and scrambles for his shirt.</p><p>Quentin's glorious haze of emotion dissipates in an instant and he lurches to his feet, body trying to catch up to the record-scratch hairpin turn his brain has just executed. The frantic villagers on the other side of the door step back a little when he pulls it open, except for one woman who rushes forward, grabbing Quentin by the forearms desperately.</p><p>"Please, you must help, the upper pass-- quickly."</p><p>"Show us," Quentin says, and they follow the woman down the rickety stairs and out into the night, the rest of the villagers grabbing torches to light their way.</p><p>The air at the upper pass is choked with dust, tiny pebbles still skittering down the piles of jagged rock that now cover several buildings and a small plaza. Some of the miners from the nearby quarry are attempting to haul away some of the debris, but there's not really anywhere to put it. Quentin surveys the scene with horror. Eliot is looking at the now much more sheer cliff face above, muttering under his breath.</p><p>"How are we going to move this?" Quentin asks. On Earth there are rescue dogs, firefighters, trauma wards. On Fillory there are two somewhat-trained magicians. "<em>Where</em> are we going to move it?"</p><p>"Notebook," Eliot says suddenly, grabbing Quentin's upper arm, and Quentin hurriedly hands him paper and pencil. Eliot scribbles sideways on a blank page for a moment, swears quietly, crosses something out, looks at the stars, scribbles again-- "I can get it over the next ridge."</p><p>Quentin cranes his neck up to where the mountain peaks and falls away, yards above them. "All of it?"</p><p>"All of it." Eliot hands him the notebook and settles himself with his feet shoulder width apart, bringing his hands together.</p><p>Quentin skims his calculations. They're flawless, if you assume that Eliot had three magicians' worth of power at his disposal. "El--"</p><p>"I’ve got this, Q." Eliot's already going through a series of motions, fingers splayed, then twisted.</p><p>"At least do it in a few loads--"</p><p>"And if I run out of power after the first load?" Power is beginning to crackle through the dust in the air. "Stand back," Eliot yells to the townspeople, who have already noticed and begun to run to safety.</p><p>"Eliot!" No response, just more casting. Quentin growls wordlessly and looks back at the notebook, makes one quick tweak to the formula, adds another step, then tears the page out and holds it in his teeth. He steps up beside Eliot, joining his motions, drawing some of the power towards himself.</p><p>"Quentin," Eliot snaps.</p><p>Quentin says "Nnn!" and Eliot turns to look at him, spots the paper in Quentin's mouth. His lips set in a grim line and he changes his hand position, widens his stance to incorporate Quentin into the fabric of the spell.</p><p>The currents of power are making the rocks shake, sending more dust billowing into the air, but gradually they're rising. They make a horrific grinding noise as they scrape each other and the cliffside, lifting into the air, two feet, five feet, ten feet. Quentin can see crumpled forms being revealed as the rocks rise away. Fifteen feet, twenty feet. They've got a couple yards to go, and Quentin feels wrung out, like he's blown all the air in his lungs into the balloon already and has no more to push. "El!" he shouts over the din.</p><p>A wordless roar wrenches its way out of Eliot as he raises his arms above his head, and the rocks fling themselves up, up and over the ridge, descending down the other side with an almighty crash that echoes through the pass. Quentin is stunned for a moment by the sudden release of the spell, staggers backwards, and it isn't until he regains his balance that he notices Eliot in a heap on the ground beside him.</p><p>"El," Quentin gasps, and drops straight to his knees, reaching for Eliot's hands, his head. Every hair on Eliot's arms is standing on end, his hands are limp, and Quentin--</p><p>
  <em>brushes his fingers against skin like tissue paper, cold, too cold for such a warm day, and why won't you wake up</em>
</p><p>shakes himself out of the memory furiously and sobs with relief when he sees Eliot is breathing softly, eyes closed, no blood that he can see. A couple of the townsfolk rush over as well, and Quentin accepts a canteen of water from someone.</p><p>"He'll be fine," he babbles. "Just-- he's okay--" He takes a sip of water, his hands shaking so badly he wets half his shirt, then splashes some more into his palm and wipes it across Eliot's dust-streaked face. "Come on, El, fuck, wake up," he whispers.</p><p>Eliot, being Eliot, refuses to comply. Some of the sturdier miners run up with a makeshift rope stretcher, and Quentin tries to be helpful as they load Eliot on it and mostly just succeeds in clutching Eliot's unmoving hand. Word travels like lightning in this small a town, and by the time the miners have carefully transferred Eliot into his bed at the inn, the local hedge-healer is bustling up the stairs already, bag of tricks in hand.</p><p>She peers through several pieces of colored glass at various parts of Eliot's head and torso, and finally gives a diagnosis of exhaustion, most likely nothing more serious, and strict instructions to stay nearby with water and honey at the ready for when Eliot wakes up. Quentin stands to see her out, passing her over to waiting townsfolk so they can take her to the pass to treat the wounded there, then hovers uncertainly. The innkeeper's daughter brings him up a wash basin and towels, and the mug of honey and water the healer ordered, and some hot tea ("for your nerves," she says, clasping Quentin's hands briefly before she leaves).</p><p>Quentin goes to his room briefly to wash off the dust and change into clean clothes, then pulls a chair up next to Eliot’s bed and picks up a clean towel. He unbuttons Eliot's shirt for the second time that evening, and while he carefully wipes away the dirt and sweat he keeps one palm flat on Eliot's chest, making sure it keeps rising and falling steadily. He tucks one of the blankets in around Eliot, pulls the other one off the bed to wrap around his own shoulders, and settles in to wait.</p><p>It's well past noon, the innkeeper's daughter having come up several times to deliver breakfast and lunch and innumerable cups of tea, when Eliot's eyelids finally start to flutter. "Mm," he says, turning his head away from the light shining in through the one small window.</p><p>Quentin is leaning forward immediately, the sleep-deprived jangle of his nerves kicked into high gear. "El," he says, trying not to shout. He remembers the water and honey, grabs the mug from the floor. "El, here, drink."</p><p>Eliot reaches out with eyes still closed, and Quentin helps him raise his head a little, take a sip. Eliot sighs. "'S not alcohol," he says accusingly.</p><p>Weirdly, those words are the most reassuring thing he could have said. "Just water and honey. Medieval gatorade."</p><p>Eliot opens one eye, then the other, rolling his neck and shoulders as he sits up. "How long was I out?"</p><p>"Fifteen, sixteen hours?" Quentin presses the mug into Eliot's increasingly functional hands and watches him drink, satisfied. "A messenger left at dawn to ride to Margo. I asked her to send Bryony right away, she and Max are almost done with their latest repair project." Eliot looks blank, so he reminds him: "She’s a Healing student? She’ll be more helpful for everyone hurt last night than either of us can be."</p><p>"Right." Eliot puts the empty mug on the floor. "We <em>did</em> manage to clear the rockslide last night, right? I wasn't entirely conscious for those last few seconds."</p><p>"We did, but fuck, El--" Quentin lets out a slow, shuddering breath. "I was so fucking scared. I thought you were going to kill yourself trying, or-- niffin out, or give yourself a fucking aneurysm, or..." His hands clench into fists on his lap.</p><p>"I know," Eliot says, reaching out and grabbing Quentin's wrist firmly. "That... maybe could have been a result of my initial plan. I’m lucky you were there.”</p><p>Quentin makes a pained noise and leans forward, needing connection--</p><p>and his mouth bumps clumsily against Eliot's cheek, Eliot having turned his head at the last moment to avoid the kiss.</p><p>Quentin draws back, uncomprehending but already panicking. "Um. What--?"</p><p>"Q," Eliot starts, then lets go of Quentin's wrist. "That's not a good idea."</p><p>"Why not?"</p><p>"It's not," Eliot says. "This is-- emotions are running high, you haven't slept in over twenty-four hours. Things were-- different, last night. I shouldn't have taken advantage."</p><p>"Taken advantage?" Quentin's voice feels very far away, ringing in his ears. "What are you talking about?"</p><p>"I--"</p><p>"No, what the <em>fuck</em> are you talking about?" Quentin repeats, interrupting. "How could you-- in what possible interpretation of what I said last night--"</p><p>"We've been out here in the middle of nowhere for two weeks, all up in each other's business, doing a ton of cooperative spell work.” Eliot is staring over Quentin’s shoulder, again, not meeting his eyes. “Sometimes these feelings pop up, but that doesn't mean you just roll with it, you have to know it's a product of the circumstances."</p><p>The edges of Quentin's vision are going white with rage, plus despair and a healthy dose of sleep deprivation. "Bullshit," is the only thing he can manage to say, gasping it out, his breath coming fast and shallow. "Fuck-- fucking bullshit, that's <em>not</em> it, you're not <em>listening</em>--"</p><p>"I'm listening, I've just seen this all before," Eliot says, hurriedly. "You don't know what you're doing, what you're asking of yourself. I know me, Quentin, and I know I'm not right for you."</p><p>Quentin stands and walks out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.</p><p>He sinks to the floor, back against the wall, head swimming, knowing that Eliot is going to take him leaving as more proof of his fucked-up theory of their relationship. Somehow he managed to bring the blanket with him, and he pulls it over his head and closed in front of his face, and decides to rest there, alone with his misery, for just a moment.</p><p>He blinks awake that evening to see Bryony the Intern and the innkeeper's daughter looking down at him with almost identical expressions of worry. "I'm fine," he lies groggily.</p><p>“I tried to wake him a few times, but he was just so exhausted, I couldn't,” the innkeeper’s daughter tells Bryony.</p><p>"The carriage is waiting downstairs," Bryony says. "I set it up as an ambulance, basically, with a bed instead of seats. I figured I didn't know if you'd want to stay or go."</p><p>"I'm staying," Quentin says, staring at the floor near his face. "I'm going to finish what we started."</p><p>"Okay," she says uncertainly. "Do you need Eliot to stay with you?"</p><p><em>Yes, but apparently what I need is completely fucking irrelevant,</em> Quentin doesn't say. "Eliot can do what he wants. Or, what you say he should do. He's awake, he's still pretty weak, I don't know-- you're the expert."</p><p>"You should go sleep in a real bed," Bryony says gently. "I'll go check on Eliot."</p><p>"Yeah," says Quentin, and after she leaves it only takes him ten minutes to gather enough energy to get back to his room.</p><p>The next week is a blur, not because anything much happens. Bryony decides Eliot should go back to Whitespire because it will be more restful. When the carriage-ambulance departs, Quentin makes sure he's elsewhere, continuing to build the net. After a few days his fingers ache from the repetitive work of twisting wire and threading beads, but at least he can do it without thinking. Thinking isn't really an option, with the grayness and lethargy creeping into the edges of every moment, threatening to overwhelm him like they have so many times before. He starts out working on the net at a table in the common room (not the back corner one, though), then works on it sitting up in bed, then lying down in bed. Max finishes his latest repair project and comes up from the palace to assist, and more or less finishes the last quarter of the work by himself.</p><p>When they finally go to hang the new sections of net and activate the spell, the flow of magic through Quentin's fingers and into the shining wire feels not like a triumph, but like a loss.</p><p>***</p><p>They reach Whitespire in the dead of night -- Quentin couldn't stand being in that inn any longer, and insisted they leave even though it was already late afternoon when they finished the spell. Quentin barely nods at the footmen who greet him. He crawls into bed with his clothes on and, mercifully, passes out.</p><p>It's impossible to tell what time it is when he wakes up. There's a glass of water with lemon in it on his bedside table, next to a plate of breakfast pastries. The blinds are shut tightly and his traveling bag has been neatly unpacked, his belongings laid out in their proper places. Turns out that being a generally agreeable, low-maintenance guy tends to make the servants like you.</p><p>Quentin takes all this in, then stares at the ceiling. It doesn't seem worth it to get up. It doesn't really seem worth it to close his eyes again. It certainly doesn't seem worth it go through all the effort of picking up the water or the pastries and actually consuming them.</p><p>A nagging voice from his memory is observing that wow, it's been a while since he had an episode this bad, and he'd better tell someone what's up so they can help him. In a little while he won't even be able to do that, so, use those last dregs of energy and self-worth and find some support! Let's go, champ!</p><p>Another nagging memory wells up--</p><p>
  <em>curled under the blanket in the cottage, numb and blank</em>
</p><p>
  <em>the mattress dips and there's a warm body against his back, a hand stroking his hair, the ends of curls tickling the back of his neck</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Q, baby, you have to eat something. Please. Just a few bites. I'm heating some bath water in the kettle, I'll get in with you, but eat first. Please, for me, if you can't do it for yourself.</em>
</p><p>Quentin rolls over, reaches for the water, drinks all of it. Collapses back on the bed, and sleeps.</p><p>Sometime later, Margo is there, sitting on the foot of his bed.</p><p>"Hey," she says. "The servants said you were sick."</p><p>"Yeah," Quentin says. "Depression. Fun stuff."</p><p>Margo sighs. "Fuck, Q, I'm so sorry. Can I get you anything? Send a bunny to Earth for some good brain drugs?"</p><p>"I don't even know what I'd take anymore," Quentin says. "I haven't had a prescription in like two years. And it takes weeks to kick in."</p><p>"Well, the healers aren't sure what to do for you, and I don't want you to just waste away in here. So. Any suggestions?"</p><p>"Ask Eliot," Quentin says bitterly. "He knows."</p><p>Margo nods. "I'll send a messenger, see if he can come back or tell us what to do."</p><p>"Messenger? Where is he?"</p><p>"He went somewhere else on your to-do list. Poke's Reach? Pirate's?"</p><p>A blaze of-- something, some emotion, too hard to tell them apart right now-- cuts like a knife through Quentin's brain fog. He sits up abruptly. "Pyrake's Reach? When did he go?"</p><p>"Yesterday," Margo says warily. "He said he could handle this one on his own."</p><p>"No, he most certainly fucking cannot," Quentin says. The strange emotional heat is keeping him sitting up against all odds. "That is by far the most dangerous job on the list -- fifty-fifty chance, either the spider-crows leave the village alone, or they go fucking berserk and murder everyone in the forest." He kicks off the blankets, stumbling a bit on his way to his shoes. "We agreed it was too dangerous to go back there before we did more research."</p><p>"He's been recovered for a few days, he was researching, maybe he found something..." Margo is starting to look more and more concerned.</p><p>"If he did, he didn't run it by anyone. There's a reason why we do this as a <em>team</em>, Margo, especially big shit like this. Did he tell you what happened in the mountains?" Margo's silence answers the question. "So he’s apparently off on some fucking self destructive suicide mission, and he needs to be fucking stopped before he actually manages to die."</p><p>“Why--?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Quentin says, hoping he doesn’t, hoping he didn’t do this.</p><p>"I'll get the carriage brought around," Margo says, standing, with the rigid posture and clipped tone that mean she's terrified and has gone into full High King mode to compensate. "You want the interns?"</p><p>"No, tell them I’ll see them if we get back." Quentin grabs his notebook. "This one's on me."</p><p>"<em>When</em> you get back," Margo says harshly. "You fucking bring him back, Coldwater."</p><p>"Either I do, or you're not going to see me again," Quentin says.</p><p>Thank fuck Pyrake's Reach is actually fairly close to the palace, so Quentin's emotion-fuel (anger, maybe? still hard to say) doesn't have a chance to run out on the journey. He studies his notes intently, trying to figure out exactly where Eliot is going to be, making himself eat some elk jerky and drink water to keep from getting lightheaded.</p><p>The dark and claustrophobic forest around Pyrake's Reach is exactly the type of place you'd expect to find a nest of spider-crows. The carriage can't make it more than a few feet off the road, so Quentin heads out on foot, zeroing in on what he judges to be the absolute stupidest and most reckless option for a casting area.</p><p>Turns out he’s right, and he stops at the edge of the clearing when he realizes what’s happening. Eliot is standing twenty feet from the massive spider-crow nest, back straight, face drawn and determined, the components of the spell spread out neatly on a tree stump in front of him. A gust of wind blows through the trees, perpendicular to the natural breeze, funneling dead leaves up into the air as the spell starts to build in intensity.</p><p>Quentin bites his tongue until he tastes blood. He's too late. His only chance is to let Eliot finish undisturbed, and pray to all the gods, alive and dead, that it works.</p><p>He stands silent, hands in white-knuckled fists, watching the first few layers of the complex spell. Eliot's technique is flawless, of course, exactly what they had researched and discussed, right up to the point where their research had hit a dead end. Neither of them were any good at mind control, and the psychic component of the ward was not a beginner technique. Quentin watches in horror as Eliot skips that whole part, substituting in some kind of force field barrier, a physical nudge to rebuff any spider-crows who go past a certain point, that is almost but not quite guaranteed not to work.</p><p>Eliot has almost reached the final stage of the spell, tying it all together, when a spider-crow sails lazily out of the lair, as grotesque as its name makes it sound. It encounters the new barrier, bounces off, and swerves away. Doubles back, faster this time. Bounces again. Lets out a horrendous chittering caw--</p><p>and two more spider-crows emerge, test the barrier, chitter-caw, four more, twelve, twenty--</p><p>Eliot is speeding towards the end of the spell at a mile a minute, now, watching the growing swarm of spider-crows gather above him. He glances over his shoulder and sees Quentin, who is so tied up in knots he's barely breathing. Eliot’s pronunciation doesn't falter, his hands keep moving, but his face falls in a strange way, his determination slipping--</p><p>the spell is almost complete, and it might even work, but the thing about spider-crows is</p><p>they're <em>smart</em></p><p>and as soon as one of them connects the human waving his hands and making strange sounds with its sudden inability to fly where it wants, it shrieks to its companions, and they dive.</p><p>Quentin's hands move almost unbidden, forming the slashing force of battle magic, knocking several spider-crows out of their descent and into splatters of feathers and ichor. He's running forward, shouting at Eliot to give up the spell, protect himself for fuck's sake, flinging spear after spear of invisible energy at the swarm. Eliot staggers back a bit and flings his hands in front of him, a sparkling shield spreading between his fingers, and the first wave of monsters ricochets off. The second wave swerves to avoid the shield. Quentin is three paces away. The third wave hits hard enough that Eliot falters, and in an instant they're through and on him with horrible rasping shrieks.</p><p>Quentin throws out a hand shape and a word rips from his lips with a searing pain. A spark leaves the tip of his outstretched finger, zips toward the swarm with laser precision</p><p>and blossoms into a spherical blast of fire, obliterating the spider-crows still in the air.</p><p>The shockwave trips him, and he hits the ground hard. He pushes himself up with bloodied hands and keeps moving forward.</p><p>Eliot has his head down, arm across his face to protect his eyes, and is flailing viciously around himself with the heavy iron spike that was a minor component of the spell, connecting every once in a while. Quentin grabs a spider-crow in both hands, throws it down under his feet and stomps with his full weight. His shoulder burns with pain as another rakes its venomous claws across his back, and he grabs that one too, ignoring that it takes a chunk out of his finger with its beak, slams it against the tree stump until it stops moving. Eliot has cleared himself of the last few, slicing them with precise battle magic as a cut on his forehead streams blood and the side of his face swells up from a poisonous gash.</p><p>"The spell isn't stable," he gasps. "We need to--"</p><p>Quentin flings a hand at the spider-crow nest, says another word that burns his chest and throat on its way out, and the nest, the tree it hangs in, and the rest of the trees for twenty feet around all burst into roaring flames.</p><p>"You fucking idiot," he gasps at Eliot. "You absolute-- fucking-- what the fuck is wrong with you."</p><p>Smoke is beginning to choke the air as one dead branch catches another, and another. Eliot swallows hard, looking at Quentin with huge, adrenaline-flooded eyes.</p><p>"Carriage," Quentin says, all he can manage, as the wave of rage that has been driving him starts to fizzle and his vision swims. "Now."</p><p>The layer of dead leaves on the ground cushions his fall as he collapses.</p><p>***</p><p>
  <em>motion, side to side and back to front jumbling</em>
</p><p>
  <em>shouting</em>
</p><p>
  <em>darkness, light, more light. clothes moving over his limbs, sheets that smell like laundry soap and not smoke</em>
</p><p>
  <em>he's in his bedroom at Whitespire, curled under the blankets, something warm and solid weighing down the bottom left corner of the mattress</em>
</p><p>
  <em>he's in the cottage, chopping carrots to put in the stew for dinner, a song in a strong tenor voice drifting through the window</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"--give it time, El, he'll wake up. You put him through the fucking wringer." "Don't the healers--" "Time, is what they say. Time."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>kissing, hungrily, splayed out on a sticky summer day, long hot drag of thighs against his thighs and fingers against his cock</em>
</p><p>
  <em>aching joints, stepping down on the spade with a creak, until it clicks against something buried just a foot under the dirt, not twenty feet from their front door</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"--if we could just talk again-- I was so fucking stupid--"</em>
</p><p>
  When he wakes up, the weight near his left foot resolves itself into a human-sized blob. He blinks stuck-together eyelashes and sees Fen.
</p><p>
  "Hello there, sleepy head," she says. Her bright smile is shaky. "You've been scaring us."
</p><p>
  Quentin's lips are cracked, and it takes him a moment to wet his mouth enough to speak. "Sorry," he croaks. "Had to."
</p><p>
Fen's eyes well up with tears. "I know," she says, looking down and away. "Thank you." She stands -- sound of pouring water -- Quentin has a cup in his bandaged hand, the pottery cool and smooth. The water stings going down, but suddenly every muscle in his body is screaming for him to drink an ocean of it. It's a strange feeling, since the world is still grey around the edges, and just lifting his head enough to take sips takes so, so much effort.
</p><p>
"I was on watching duty," Fen explains. "We've been taking shifts -- I should tell them you're up." She hesitates. "Should I tell Eliot?"
</p><p>
"Yeah, but. I can't. I'm tired." Quentin closes his eyes. "Just tell him not to fucking go anywhere."
</p><p>
"Oh, Margo's got that part covered," Fen says mildly. "I really thought she was going to put him in the dungeon as soon as the healers said he was okay to move around."
</p><p>
 "Deserve it," Quentin mutters halfheartedly, and drifts off again.
</p><p>
 The next days are a greatest hits medley of How To Convince Quentin Coldwater's Terrible Brain To Fucking Chill Already. Max brings him lunch with lots of protein and complex carbs and sits staring at him until he eats it. Fen coaxes him into a bath, averting her eyes conspicuously. Margo comes in and does her daily pilates routine next to his bed every morning until she thinks he's strong enough to join in, then yells at him until he does. Curtains are opened, curtains are closed, Bryony takes him out to the courtyard to sit and feel the breeze, and brings him a book of crossword puzzles and one of fairy tales (from actual fairies, so they're not exactly soothing). The healers come up with some potion that tastes mostly like toothpaste and doesn't do much for the first couple doses, then the weight in Quentin's chest gets a little lighter, then a little lighter still.
</p><p>
There's always a hard part, coming out of a bad episode, where he's regained enough of himself to understand just how bad it was, just how much help he needed, and regret and shame come crashing down like a ton of bricks. Margo sits with him through it, holding him tight in strong slim arms and not complaining about the snot on her silk gown.
</p><p>
He's feeling mostly human again, sitting at his desk to finish up some notes about the rockslide ward, when footsteps hesitate outside his room, and Eliot knocks softly and cracks the door open in one motion.
</p><p>
 "Hey," he says. He looks a little pale, darker circles under his eyes than usual.
</p><p>
 "Hey," Quentin responds.
</p><p>
"I was hoping you were better enough that we could talk."
</p><p>
  "Yeah." Quentin closes his notebook. "I think so."
</p><p>
  Eliot closes the door behind him, takes a couple steps into the room and perches on the edge of the bed, legs stretched out and ankles crossed. He licks his lips, staring at Quentin. After a long pause, he says, "It would probably help if I could figure out what the fuck to say."
</p><p>
  Quentin snorts. "Tell me about it."
</p><p>
 "There is--" Eliot turns his head to stare out the window, lets out a sharp sigh. "No way for me to apologize enough, I don't think. For nearly getting myself killed twice in a row, for fucking stupid reasons, and for dragging you into danger to stop me."
</p><p>
 "I did choose to come after you," Quentin points out. "You specifically did not drag me. Or even tell me."
</p><p>
 "But I knew you'd come," Eliot says. "I know you, Q. I <em>know</em> you. And I did it anyway, just-- I don't know, because I was angry with myself, and just to see. Like it was some kind of fucked up test."
</p><p>
  Quentin clenches his jaw, but it’s nothing he didn’t know already, really. "Did I pass?"
</p><p>
  "Of course. You pass every fucking time," Eliot says, his voice cracking. "And I fail, every fucking time I get a chance to." He takes a shuddering breath. "This is why we can't, we-- I'm not good enough. I don't even really try to be."
</p><p>
  "Okay, fucking stop," Quentin says firmly. Eliot looks at him, heartbreak written wide on his face, like this is the other shoe he knew was gonna drop. "Stop talking. Just-- listen to me, and don't argue. Don't even let your brain argue." He closes his eyes for a second, trying to compose the thoughts that have been swirling tangled and half-built through his brain since before he finished the rockslide net.
</p><p>
  "I have been," he starts, "Absolutely as fucking clear as I know how to be. I love you, and I want you, and I want to try this. And the fact you keep trying to test and see if you can catch me not wanting it is juvenile bullshit, and <em>I still want it.</em> You have-- given me every excuse in the book why I shouldn't, and just-- written a whole fucking sequel to the book when that didn't convince me. But the one thing I have never heard you say--" He takes a deep breath and stares into Eliot's eyes. "You have never told me that we shouldn't be together because you don't want me back."
</p><p>
  Quentin pauses, but Eliot shows no signs of saying anything, so Quentin continues, jumping fully off the cliff: "So if you, Eliot Waugh, are actually not interested in this-- say that. Tell me that. I can take it, I'm not going to-- force you into something you don't want. But you are never," he says, intently, "<em>Never</em> going to tell me again that I don't or can't or shouldn't love you. Because that's not your fucking call."
</p><p>
  They sit facing each other, silence stretching out between them.
</p><p>
  Eliot opens his mouth, draws in a trembling breath. "You really have my fucking number, Coldwater," he says.
</p><p>
  Quentin sobs, dam breaking fully, and crumples forward, face in his hands. Eliot lunges off the bed, ends up half-kneeling half-sitting in front of him, kissing the top of his head, tipping his face up, smoothing his hair back. "I'm sorry, Q, I'm so sorry, I want--" Eliot is tearing up now too, bright patches of red appearing on his cheeks. "I want to be good enough to deserve this. I don't know if I can give you-- you scare the fuck out of me, how certain you are, how much you're giving me."
</p><p>
  Quentin laughs wetly. "I guess it is maybe overkill to tell you I love you before we've gone on a single date."
</p><p>
  "That is... a lot, true," Eliot says, grinning back. "I-- I'm not there yet, I think."
</p><p>
  "You don't have to be." Quentin swallows another sob. "Just, let's try? See where it goes? If we don't end up staying together till we're eighty, that's fine. I mean," he reconsiders, "Not <em>fine</em>, I do think I want that, but I'll take whatever you give me."
</p><p>
  "Deal," Eliot says, and pulls Quentin into a fierce hug, burying his face in the side of Quentin's neck. Quentin inhales deeply and almost starts sobbing again at the smell of Eliot's hair, the beautiful weight of his arms around Quentin's ribs. 
</p><p>
  "Fuck," he says finally, "We're a fucking mess."
</p><p>
  "What else is new," Eliot says, muffled by the collar of Quentin's shirt.
</p><p>
  "Can we maybe move this over? I'm still pretty tired--"
</p><p>
  "Yeah, yeah--" Eliot stands, unfolding with a groan. Quentin doesn't want to let go of him, steers them both towards the bed and just flings himself on it, pulling Eliot down with him. There's some amount of wrangling for position, finding places for arms and legs and chins -- a familiar struggle, familiar down to Quentin's bones, and it resolves as it always has, Quentin tucked in against Eliot's chest, Eliot absentmindedly playing with his hair, his heart beating loud and steady in Quentin's ear. And as always, when Quentin shifts to look up at Eliot's face, Eliot is already looking down, ready to move in for a kiss.
</p><p>
  Quentin melts, again. He wonders if he'll ever not just full-body bliss out when Eliot kisses him. He hopes not.
</p><p>
  They make out lazily, no particular endpoint in mind, just closeness. "You know what I just realized," Quentin says eventually.
</p><p>
  "Mm?"
</p><p>
  "Technically, in this timeline, we've never actually fucked. Like, that one night with Margo, but not-- just us."
</p><p>
 “Intriguing,” Eliot says, grinning wide and wicked. "And in this timeline I won't even have to teach you how to do it."
</p><p>
  "You didn't have to teach me last time," Quentin sputters. "I knew what I was doing."
</p><p>
  "Oh, Q, you were such a sweet naive boy. You knew this much--" Eliot holds his fingers an inch apart in front of Quentin's face "--of the vast array of things sex has to offer, and you were so <em>enthusiastic</em>, it was adorable."
</p><p>
  "I--" Quentin can't even find the words to contradict that strongly enough. "You are so full of it, you fuck."
</p><p>
  "Ssh, baby, it's okay. Daddy Eliot took care of you then, he'll take care of you now."
</p><p>
  Quentin grimaces. "Yeah, still not interested in calling you Daddy."
</p><p>
  "No?" Eliot sighs. "Well, this timeline isn't perfect either, then. Ah well." He cups Quentin's chin in one hand, kisses him sweetly and just a little hungrily. "It's damn close."
</p><p>
  &lt;***
</p><p>
  It's not that the memories are fading. Quentin would never want that. Just to be safe, he's written three notebooks' worth of -- well, after-the-fact diary entries, basically, as much as he can remember. He assumes the book of that timeline's Quentin is somewhere in the Library, but who knows how accurately those assholes record things.
</p><p>
No, the memories are still there, vivid and gorgeous as ever. But he doesn't need them as much, because for every memory, there's a corresponding reality now
</p><p>
waking in bed too early, before they really have to get up, and rolling sleepily over and over until their legs and the sheets are hopelessly tangled
</p><p>
bickering back and forth about something tiny, with increasingly implausible insults, until the interns actually report them to Margo and she comes in to make them knock it off and get some fucking work done, she's got a kingdom to rule
</p><p>
midnight make-out sessions that inevitably turn into Quentin riding Eliot's cock, desperate, panting and trying not to wake up the whole fucking palace, Q, you are such a fucking <em>screamer</em>, I should put something in that pretty little mouth to keep you quiet--
</p><p>
(several of Eliot's ties are eventually sacrificed to the cause, picked for softness and how good their colors look against Quentin's lips)
</p><p>
 soft kisses on the back of his neck when Eliot slips into bed late, or is it technically early, back from a thorough cocktail development sesh and bitchfest with Margo
</p><p>
sitting cross-legged in the biggest armchair in the library, body folded over a book in his lap, hair falling over his face, so absorbed he actually startles when Eliot calls his name for the third time and then grins at his spooked face
</p><p>
And this time around they have Fen, not Arielle, who is Eliot's, not Quentin's, but her easy laugh and her deep passion aren't far off, honestly. And after a little while they find the balance, a bed with room for three people's tossing and turning, a mutual understanding of the many things that can and do happen in that bed, by twos or sometimes threes (and, on a few memorable occasions, fours).
</p><p>
The scary and hard moments have corresponding memories too, when one of their truly millions of deep-seated issues rears an ugly head, and there's yelling and/or tears and a whole lot to talk through afterwards. Quentin remembers the mistakes he made last time, fifty years' worth of them, but that somehow doesn't stop him from making them again.
</p><p>
 But they make it weeks, and months, and then it's a year. Not that Quentin's counting, with tally marks in his notebook, or anything. The chef makes them a special dinner for two, to have alone in their room. It sits on the table, untouched, getting cold.
</p><p>
 "El--" Quentin chokes out. "Fuck. They put a lot of work into that-- <em>oh</em>--, we should really eat it."
</p><p>
 Eliot smiles and circles his tongue around the head of Quentin's cock again. "But I already have my mouth full."
</p><p>
"You-- oh, <em>ah</em>, yes--" Quentin tries to arch off the bed, Eliot's firm grip on his hips keeping him planted. He runs his fingers through Eliot's hair, and groans when Eliot sucks harder. "Fuck, mm--"
</p><p>
"Chatty today," Eliot remarks, like he's commenting on the weather. Quentin can feel his fingers moving into familiar shapes against the back of Quentin's thigh, and so is unsurprised at the slick smear of lube across his skin, conjured to coat Eliot's hand.
</p><p>
"I just think," Quentin says. He pushes himself up on his elbows but fuck, then he can <em>watch</em> Eliot swallow his cock, big dark eyes smirking up at him. "There's an-- nn-- order to these things."
</p><p>
"Buy you dinner, then fuck you?" Eliot asks. "How heteronormative. You're so cute." He adds another finger to the two already working their way inside Quentin. Eliot can be patient when he wants to be -- brutally, evilly patient -- but that doesn't seem to be his goal this evening. 
</p><p>
Quentin relaxes back again, grabs at the edges of the pillow under his head. It's good, it's so good, to be with someone who will call him on his bullshit, not take sex or life too seriously, be deep-down secretly romantic and show it with drawled jokes and half-heard whispers just before they fall asleep, but he does sometimes just want the full, dorky, start to finish date night experience, without being interrupted by either magical emergencies or sex. "I wanted you to fuck me and then we fall asleep together right afterwards," he manages to say in the moment between Eliot pulling his fingers out and crawling up Quentin's body. "I don't want to rush--"
</p><p>
Eliot kisses him, deep and with plenty of teeth, so it hurts a little in the best way. "We'll still do that," he says, smoothing Quentin's hair back from his forehead with one hand. "After dinner. And then we can go again in the morning, and tomorrow afternoon, and any time you want it, baby. I'm not going anywhere."
</p><p>
Quentin shudders, and winds his arms around Eliot's neck as Eliot slides into him, slick stretch and fullness he never gets tired of. "Say that to me when your cock's not in my ass."
</p><p>
Eliot's mouth twitches a smile, and he eases himself back out, making Quentin whimper and rake his nails across the back of Eliot's neck. "I'm not going anywhere," he repeats, and kisses Quentin so lightly, just a brush of lips. "I love you, Q."
</p><p>
"Love you too," Quentin breathes, and arches up to meet Eliot at the point where they connect.
</p>
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